A Dedicated Mothers' Day

It was Mothers' Day in France last Sunday, a fête which was officially added to the calendar by maréchal Pétain in 1941. It became a national tradition in 1918 in tribute to all the women who had lost a son and/or husband in the trenches. Ten years later, in 1929, it was used to encourage women to have babies as part of la politique familiale to repopulate the country.

I enjoyed it, for once. My eldest is now old enough to take charge. Mothers' Day is tough for single mums because there's no dad to chivvy the kids into drawing a picture, buying a flower or two or supervising the making of tea.

As I'd just asked for a little word on a piece of paper, I was agreeably surprised when I was presented with a red rose and card at lunch time (nems from the best nems-man in Montpellier plus a glass of rosé, Carrouf Magnum for puds. Simple, delicious). Gobsmacked, you might say in fact. Made my day. We had a delightful lunch outside, sitting at the table with table cloth and no tiger mozzies.

Feeling on top of the world, then, I decided I'd go into town and see what was happening at the book fair - the 30e Comédie du Livre.

It wasn't exactly on the Place de la Comédie but on the Esplanade, thankfully under a series of marquees so we, including the books, didn't all roast and curl under the sun
.

The rest of the Place da la Comédie was empty

There was a whole range of books on show, and authors. If you like books, it was the place to be. There were sections on travel books, poetry, religious books, novels, culture, and a foreign section where Le Bookshop had a books-in-English stand.

If you were looking for children's books, there was even a whole marquee for them many of which looked super. I lamented again how I have boys who dislike reading. They don't even read comic books, or BD (bande déssinée) which are wildly popular in France, and were on show en masse at the fair.

On one of the stands, I saw a BD about Montpellier, called Balade à Montpellier by 'Gaston'. It's a humorous tour of the city that manages to distil the essence of Montpellier by pointing out its clichés (gay capital of France, red car on Rock Store wall, etc.), and guides us rapidly through its history. I had a look through and loved it.

It's obviously been written by someone who loves the city and knows it well. The author, 'Gaston' or Alain Rémy is an accomplished cartoonist who's worked with Disney and Spielberg, and is a script writer for Ubisoft (on 'Rabbids Go Home').

I noticed that he was dedicating the books purchased on site with a little cartoon! I had to have one too! I'm a sucker for a dedication.

Gaston dedicating his book for me

It was my turn, so I sat down and he started asking me about myself (how cool is that?) in order to find inspiration. I told him about coming to France to be with my future ex-h, and after we divorced I wanted to be with someone who spoke excellent English. There was a bit more chit chat, and he started drawing in the book I'd bought. This is what he came up with:

My dedication from Gaston. That's me on the right in my stripy tee-shirt. :)

"V.O." is a French expression for films and tele programmes that are shown not dubbed, in their original version ('version original'). Isn't it great? He has a talent for grasping the essential spirit of something/someone and whipping up a cartoon about it/them. He does it on the tele too.

Not only did I get the book dedicated, but the sponsoring bookshop (Librarie des 5 continents) was offering a dedicated card too, so this is mine:

*Chuffed*

I positively floated home.

Mother's Day Jubilee Pageant

Rowers from the Jubilee Pageant, June 3

It was Mother's Day here in France yesterday. That meant I had control of the remote from 3.15pm and could watch France 2's coverage of the Jubilee Pageant. My Sky Digibox couldn't capture the satellite image for the BBC although Channel 4 was beaming out perfectly. I was not pleased at being obliged to listen to the inane rubbish being spouted out of France 2 but from what I've read in comments on The Times and Telegraph online, the BBC made a bit of a hash of things too.

Nothing could detract from the splendour of the spectacle though. I loved to see the Queen looking so happy as she approached the magnificently decorated Royal Barge, the Spirit of Chartwell. Sixty years on the throne is worth celebrating and apparently more than a million people watched the Queen from the banks of the Thames, braving the cold, wind and rain of a typical day in June.

From the comfort of my sofa, cup of tea in hand, I watched as the boats started off, first the rowers, all rowing against the tide and with a couple hours of rowing ahead of them but all with huge smiles on their faces and obviously proud to be part of the flotilla. Seeing the Queen resplendent and happy, the huge number of boats participating, and the crowds lining the Thames, I felt so proud that us Brits can pull off such a joyful show. Despite the weather, everyone was together with everyone else, all there for one person, to celebrate the amazing feat of sixty years on the throne. It brought more than one tear to my eye.

Back on the tele what I missed from the commentary was information about the boats and the background to some of the more historical ones. There was a line of people sending out a message by semaphore - what did it mean? No one knew. Apparently no one knew on the BBC either - shame on them!

Instead, France 2 gave us Karl Lagerfeld who sketched a picture of the Queen in a cape which he thought would have been a better choice against the elements than the shawl she had. He gave it a nautical touch in honour of the flotilla. There were several interviews from the Belem, a French sailing yacht which was moored so far down stream that the Royal Barge didn't actually pass in front of it, but they caught a glimpse from afar. We also got an interview with a couple of musicians outside a pub in Piccadilly who gave a rendition of 'Daisy Daisy' on their accordions.

That morning, Europe1 invited the British Ambassador for an interview on the radio to talk about the Queen and the Jubilee. One journalist distinguished herself by asking the Ambassador if the Queen wasn't just a 'potiche' which is a pejorative term for 'figurehead'. I hope she got a bollocking for her complete lack of respect and professionalism. It certainly shocked some of the listeners. The Ambassador ignored the jibe and answered question.

France 2's coverage didn't extend to the fireworks off Tower Bridge so I didn't see that. The French called it a day when the Spirit of Chartwell docked, and my youngest who had sat through much of the spectacle upside down on the sofa could happily right himself and get back to the XBox.

My day ended with a special Mother's Day chicken bought at vast expense from the butcher's. My eldest roasted it with instruction from me, with roast potatoes and broccoli. It was a lovely dinner, but no tastier than the usual Red Label chicken I get from the supermarket. I won't be buying a butcher chicken again but at least my son now knows how to cook a chicken and roast potatoes.

We finished off with strawberries from the garden and sweet juicy mango. Definitely a Mother's Day to remember.

Beware Bawling Woman

I've been suffering from magnesium deficiency and knew it not. It's been creeping up on me, apparently, and suddenly hit with a vengeance yesterday when I found myself bawling uncontrollably for no reason. On Mothers' Day. Great timing.

The previous evening I'd been at the party that was to have had party games but didn't in the end (thank god) and was a pretty anti-social bugger really. I went armed with good intentions. I'd mingle with the best of them, chat pleasantly with complete strangers, not hang around the food, and not get bored.

That was the plan. When we got there however, 40 people were milling around the garden. That's a lot of people for me - a crowd actually. I felt pretty discouraged and, in my low magnesium state, gave up. I chatted to the friends I went with, my TWDB, and my pal whose party it was. If anyone came my way, I was pleasant, but I made no effort at all to mingle.

I also hung around the food and eventually found myself sitting at a table next to people who bored me. Then I found out that the guy works for the local electricity company. A couple of years ago he cut off the electricity of my friends who were sitting with me, and my buddy found herself on a Friday evening in early August with 3 small kids and no electricity. Her husband was away for the weekend.

What had happened was that their mail was not getting through so they weren't receiving bills, reminders or final demands. No call was made to enquire or warn about the imminent cut-off and it was done at the most inconvenient time possible. My friends lost the contents of their fridge and freezer and the guy responsible was sitting gawping like a fish opposite.

When tackled, he said that they aren't allowed to cut people off on a Friday evening any more (d'oh) but his attitude was very dodgy and I did think things would come to blows. They didn't, but he nearly ended up in the swimming pool. Tosser.

By this time I'd had enough even though the party was just starting to swing at 1.30am, so we left. The others had had enough too, strangely...

Yesterday I felt the full effects of magnesium deficiency and the day was a write-off. I was prostrate and weepy and too cross to eat lunch and absolutely ghastly to be around. Even alcohol didn't help! I thought it might be the menopause coming on but the doc today said that it was not hormonal, merely a lack of magnesium, so I've got a course of supplements.

It seems to be brought on by stress, among other things including alcoholism which certainly isn't my problem! I was even the designated driver for the party, which didn't help my party spirit either.

Luckily I had organised nothing for Mothers' Day. I didn't want to give myself even more work just so that everyone else could have a great time. Call me a selfish old bat but the idea of celebrating motherhood by giving myself some major stress didn't appeal. Instead I got the bread machine to make some pizza dough and my youngest rustled up some pizzas last night with no help from me. I was on the sunbeds with my TWDB, glass of rosé in hand hoping it would cheer me up. It didn't.

The pizza was damned good though.

Naturally the kitchen ended up a bomb-site and guess who had to clean it up today...

Yummy Mummy

It's Mother's Day here in France today - la Fête des Mères. To celebrate, it poured with rain for most of the day. Anyone hoping to have a lovely picnic would have been sorely disappointed. Anyone hoping to eat al fresco at restaurant in the sun would also have had to turn to Plan B.

I took an executive decision yesterday to adopt Plan B and bought accordingly. Plan A had been to take a picnic and eat it whilst watching my youngest play footie in his footie tournament. Plan B was much better in fact - eat at home in comfort, with a decent meal and a bottle of Veuve Cliquot.

As I have no partner to jolly the boys into making my breakfast or do anything in particular, I just had a lie-in and made my own brekkie. I think that this year I'll teach my eldest to make a mug of tea, and train him to carry it without incurring second degree burns, so he can make breakfast for me next year.

I had done the cleaning yesterday, with much bad temper I might add. I'm not one of nature's joyful little housewives and the first thing I would do if I had the money would be to get a cleaning lady.

Anyway, today I could concentrate on lazing about and then getting down to lunch. My youngest is a keen cook and, being in my good books because he gave me a nice little pressie that he'd made at school, was allowed to help me because he's actually a pretty good helper. My eldest just gave me a kiss and settled down to watch more tele. I had to shout at him to turn it off so he stomped off upstairs.

We were to have proper prawn cocktail, and scallop risotto. My youngest saw the prawns and told me that he and his brother didn't like them. "What day is it today?" I asked him. He had the grace to smirk. Bugger me if I'm going to cook for them on MY day. Good grief.

NG joined us for lunch as her son is a hopeless twat who didn't even send her flowers despite my hinting earlier in the week that it was Mother's Day and if he wanted me to get some flowers on his behalf to let me know. He didn't even reply to my text message. There's another who thinks a kiss via the phone is sufficient. She gave me a beautiful brooch as a pressie in just the colours I wear that had been given to her many years ago.

Happily, lunch was lovely. The prawn cocktail was yummy, the risotto, taken from my Harrods' cookbook was divine - I added some mussels and used the juice from cooking them as stock for the rice - and we finished with strawberries from the garden with proper chantilly cream made by my eldest. All washed down with Veuve Cliquot because if we don't buy it to spoil ourselves you can be sure no one else will, and I detest cheap 'n' cheerful champagne.

We ate off my new table and it looked rather fab. The rose came from Intermarche as a pressie from the shop. It's in what used to be a beer bottle. Handy, huh?

After lunch, I went to have a nice snooze, joined by Ulysse who is, in fact, still in bed... The weather perked up just enough to let the boys dash outside to work off some energy.

As Mother's Days go, it was all rather pleasant and I'll definitely do that risotto again. It was very tasty and very simple to make. A perfect dish!

Sup-planted

In my garden, where there was a ground-covering plant with Bordeaux-coloured flowers, there is now a patch of bare earth. Why, is a mystery.

It doesn't look like it was dug up, or scrabbled up by a dog. It was not left to rot nearby; it has disappeared. There is no evidence of someone hopping over the fence and stealing it. Anyway, it was just a plant - nothing special - and there are two others exactly the same, and three others with white flowers within a few centimetres which remain untouched.

I discovered the mystery this evening when I went out to water the garden after deciding that the three drops that fell this afternoon were not sufficient to water a flea pit let alone thirsty vegetables and Japanese grass.

It's been odd weather. Since we put the pool up, it's either been windy, rainy or intermittently pleasant. The boys managed to have a dip today, la Fête des Mères here in France, and I recorded it for posterity to show them having fun on June 3 in the pool! About time too; it's usually revving up for out and out totally annihilating heat by now.

My youngest had made me a beautiful (chunky) red and gold papier maché bracelet at school, and a lovely card, and my eldest drew me a picture with me looking very slim. NG also got a picture from my youngest, looking a bit less slim, which, fortunately, made her laugh, if a little ruefully. Out of the crayons of babes... as they say.

Lunch included some lettuce from the garden which, quite frankly tasted exactly the same as the stuff in the shops. I suppose my consolation is that it's organic, but I'm certainly not in paroxysms of euphoria over the exquisiteness of its delicate flavour.

I wonder if my plant-nicker will come after my veggies too. S/He/It missed the fat juicy strawberries (thanks to buckets of recent rain), so I'm left to wonder if a devastating virus just hit my plant and wiped it off the face of the earth leaving no traces, not even a spot of shaken earth.

Should I call in CSI?